


Oriau Gwawr Y Bore

by Cân Cennau (cancennau)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cariad, Cofiannau, Cwsg, Cwtch, Fluff, Golwg Person Ail, Golwg Person Cyntaf, Internal Monologue, International Fanworks Day 2017, Lazy Mornings, Meddyliau Gwawr, Nostalgia, Other, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Rhamant, Sappy, Sleep, Sleepy Cuddles, Ymson Mewnol
Language: Cymraeg
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: Mae Garac yn gwylio Celas yng ngolau meddal y gwawr, ac yn meddwl am bethau. (Penod 2 bydd y cyfieithiad Saesneg)--Garak watches Kelas in the soft dawn light, and thinks about things. (Chapter 2 will be the English translation)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mae'r fersiwn Cymraeg ar gael mewn ffurf ar lafar draw [fama](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B0jFIMoZAJXmTVJWTTNES3NmU1U). Ni fydd na fersiwn ar lafar Saesneg, ond bydda i'n cyfieithu hyn o fewn cwpl o ddyddiau (er bod hi'n swnio'n gwell yn y Gymraeg).
> 
> Caiff hyn ei hysbrydoli gan post Tymblr, a wnaeth creu rhestr o bethau ni ddylai Garac fod mewn ffanstori. Ymateb fi i'r post oedd "beth os dwi'n anwybyddu chdi ac ysgrifennu popeth dwedoch chi i ddim. :) :) :)" A nawr, dyma ni. \o/
> 
> \--
> 
> The Welsh version is also available in a podfic format over [here](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B0jFIMoZAJXmTVJWTTNES3NmU1U). There won't be an English podfic, but I'll translate this in a couple of days.

Nid yw hi’n aml i fi codi cyn i di, ond y boreuau dwi yn yn gwneud i mi deimlo fel y berson fwyaf lwcus yn y dinas.

Ni fyddet ti’n yn fy nghredu i, wrth gwrs - nid ydyt ti’n dueddol o hediadau ffolus neu rhamantus. Mae hynni ddim i dweud bod ti ddim yn gariadus, i’r chwith yn wir, ond rydyt ti’n fwy ymarferol na finnau. Dangosyt ti dy gariad trwy pethau corfforol - te yn y bore, cyffyrddau ysgafn ond gofalgar, cusanau yn oriau hwyr y nos, a _“nu nika zIra’Iv”_ pan dat ti’n teimlo fel ei dweud. Ond ni fyddet ti gallu gwario oriau yn gwylio fi yn cysgu, neu yn gweithio, neu yn coginio, fel yr allai i wneud. Mae hynny’n un o ein gwahaniaethau, un sydd wedi tyfu arnaf i dros y blwyddyn diwethaf, a dat ti’n deall bod na bleser i mi gwylio a meddwl amdano ti.

Yn oriau’r gwawr, mae’r golau yn feddal, a chanwyd y _cemprelau_ yn glir yn nistawrwydd y bore. Gwelaf i di, yn gysglyd ac yn feddal, wedi dy nythu o fewn sawl clystog a chynfas, y golau gwawr yn tywynu ar dy gorff lwyd, ar dy gennau bert, ar dy gribau ac ar dy wyneb mor serennol. Heb straen dy waith, straen o byw, straen cecru am hyn neu’r llall neu weithiau amdanaf i… yn gwbl serennol, fel y cytserau yn y nenfod, yn tywynu’n dawel dros y dinas. Cofiaf edrych trwy’r ffenestr bob nos ar Gofod Dwfn Naw, yn teimlo cysurdeb o weld y ser yn gwenu i lawr, yn sefydlog, yn heddychlon, yn dawel. Teimlaf i'r un peth pan edrychaf arnat ti, fy seren yn nghanol fy mrwydron.

Ni fyddaf byth yn anghofio dy flas chwaith - y gymysgedd o lafant, gwenith a’r arogl ôl-law ar dywod yr Aifft Cardasi. ‘Dat ti’n chwerthin pan rydwyf yn ei ddweud - “Elim, dwi byth ‘di aroglu lafant na wenith, yn _wir-_ ” - ond mae o yn wir. Arogl a blas, sy’n dal i dy ddillad a dy wen, sy’n bresennol ymhlith y cynfasau yn y bore wrth i di gawodi. Mae’n atgoffa fi o’r clustog wenith ces i o Geico fel anrheg am arofalu am ei phlanhigion un waith - yr arogl cynnes o lafant a chotwm a chanel a wnaeth cyfeilio a fo i gwsg yn nosonau oer Gofod Dwfn Naw. Arogl cysuron ‘di o, a ‘dat ti yn cysur i mi nawr, ers dod adref i Gardasia.

Nid ydwyf yn gwybod beth digwyddodd i’r clystog ond, yn wir, a yw hi’n bwysig? Mae gennyf fi ti nawr, cysur a chariad i mi ers iddyn ni cwrdd eto yn adfeiliau a chwâl y brifddinas, yn cysgu’n llac wrth fy ymyl. Mae dy fol crwn yn boeth fel y clystog, ond mae’r teimlad yn llyfn bron, fel mwytho lledr hen o dy esgidau hoff, ond hefyd yn ddenau, yn gain fel rhew cyntaf y tymor oer. Gallai weld bydd dy barth yn cyrraedd yn fuan - mae dy gennau’n niwlog, y darnau llech dim ond yn pefrio yn y gwawr. Dwi’n gwybod dy fod di’n casau dy barth, fel finnau, ond dat ti bob amser yn ceisio wneud y gorau o bethau, yn brwsio dy gennau a dy wallt heb llawer o gwyno, ac yn gadael i fi ofalu amdanot ti fel yr hoffwn i.

Cofiaf i dy barth yn nhymor _pregnar_ \- y diwrnodau hir a phoeth, dy wyneb yn cropian i gysgu yng nghanol yr dydd, yr nosweithion ble oedd hi’n rhy boeth i gysgu ond hefyd rhy boeth i gwneud unrhywbeth arall. Yr haul yn machlud yn goch a phinc wrth iddyt ti brwsio a phlethu dy wallt du, cyrliog, dy gennau arian rhydd yn cwympo o’r ceincau, tywynau a arnofiwyd yn y aer tew a thwym. Y poenau wnaethot ti mynd trwy i wneud yn siwr allet ti weithio môr gymaint â phosib trwy dy barth. Ni yn cwympo mewn i’r bath oer, croesawol ar ddiwedd y dydd, dy wallt yn arnofio fel eurgylch o gwmpas dy ben, fy nghrafangau yn llusgo’r hen cennau i mewn i’r dwr glan, a ti yn osgli mewn a mas o cwsg wrth i mi sychu a sgleinio dy gennau newydd.

Cofiaf i hefyd y prydoedd pan gofalodd ti am fi. Ti yn tynnu fi o’r baw, yn glanhau fi a berwi te a’r y pentan bregus yn y gornel, y berson gyntaf ar Gardasia i bryderi amdanaf. Ac wedyn yr ymosodiadau panig, barthau fy hyn, a’r pa bynnag salwch dalaf i o’r awyrgylch. Mae na rhywbeth cysurus pan rydyt ti’n pryderi amdanaf i - efallai mae o’n y ffordd mae dy llugaid duon yn toddi wrth i di wenu arnaf i, neu’r jôcs wrth i di rhwbio’r hen cennau i ffwrdd, neu sut rydyt ti’n fy nghwtsio heb feddwl am pa gyflwr rydwyf mewn. Mae o’n… cysurlon. Cariadus. Braf.

Rydyt ti’n dechrau deffro nawr - gwelaf i un llygaid yn agor, ond mae’r llall wedi cyddio mewn meddaledd y pentwr o glystogau mae gennyt ti. Un blinc, blinc arall, ac wedyn dylyfiad mawr sy’n dangos bob un o dy ddanedd. Gwylia ti fi yn gysglyd, wrthaf i gwenu’n ffol arnot.

“Bore da, _s'h'iosr'halin_ _._ ” dwedaf yn dawel, yn gadael i fy mysedd llunio patrymau ar draws dy fol. “Breuddwydion dda, gobeithiaf.”

“Mmm.” Ymestynyt ti fel gath, breichiau a coesau yn ymestyn am y dwy ochr o’r gwely, dy gefn yn bwa tyn cyn iddyt ti ymlacio’n llwyr gyda sŵn hapus. “Cwsg dda, ye. Be ‘dy’r amser, _geh’rlin_?”

“Tipyn wedi gwawr.”

“Hmm. Mae gennym ni tua awr, te.” Cwtsiyt ti dy glystogau âg un fraich, a gyda’r un arall cwtsiyt ti fy mol a tynnyt ti fi i lawr i orwedd wrth dy ymyl, chwerth ar dy wefysau. Gwenwyt ti’n ddieuog arnaf i, dy lygaid barod yn cau’n gysglyd. Brwsiaf i un o dy blethu o ddy wyneb, wrth adael i gefn fy llaw anwesu gennau crib dy llygaid. Yn wir, meddyliaf wrth i gwsg anwesu fy llygaid hefyd, rydwyf yn y dyn fwyaf lwcus y dinas.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not often I wake before you, but the mornings I do make me feel like the luckiest person in the city.

You wouldn’t believe me, of course - you’re not prone to flights of foolishness or fancy. That doesn’t mean you’re not at all romantic, rather the opposite in all honesty, but you have always been more practical than me. You show your love through physical things - tea in the morning, gentle but careful touches, kisses in the late hours of the night, and  _ “nu nika zIra’Iv”  _ whenever you feel like saying it. But you could not spend hours watching me sleep, or work, or cook like I could do to you. That’s one of our differences, one that’s grown on me over the last year, and you understand that there is pleasure for me in watching and thinking of you.

In the early hours of dawn, the light is soft, and the  _ kemprel  _ sing clearly in the quietness of the morning. I can see you, sleepy and soft, nested in several pillows and sheets, the dawn light shining on your grey body, on your pretty scales, on your ridges and on your face which rests at peace. Without the stress of your work, without the stress of life, without the stress of fighting about this and that and sometimes with me… completely at peace, like the constellations in the heavens that twinkle calmly across the city. I remember looking through the window every night back on Deep Space Nine, feeling comforted by seeing them smile down, stable, peaceful, calm. I feel the same thing when I look upon you, my star in the centre of my battles.

I can’t forget your taste either - the mixture of lavender, wheat and the petrichor on the sands of the Cardassian desert. You laugh whenever I say it - “Elim, I’ve never even smelt lavender nor wheat,  _ honestly _ -” - but it’s true. The smell and taste, which hang to your clothes and to your smile, the taste and smell that is present amongst the bedclothes when you go and shower. It reminds me of a wheat pillow I once had, given to me by Keiko as a gift for looking after her plants once - the warm scent of lavender and cotton and cinnamon that always accompanied me to sleep in the cold nights on Deep Space Nine. A comforting smell it is, and you are a comfort to me now, since I came home to Cardassia.

I don’t remember what happened to that pillow but, truly, is it really that important? I have you now, a comfort and a lover to me since we met again in the ruins and rubble of the capital city, and now lying relaxed at my side. Your round belly is warm like the pillow, but the feeling is almost smooth, like stroking the old leather on your favourite shows, but also thin, delicate like the first frost of the cold season. I can see your shedding time will arrive soon - your scales are misty, the slate pieces only glimmering in the dawn light. I know that you hate your shedding time, like me, but you always try and make the best of things, brushing your scales and your hair without much complaining, and letting me take care of you as I would like. 

I remember your  _ pregnar  _ season shed - the days, long and hot, your face creeping into slumber in the middle of the day, the nights where it was too hot to sleep but also too hot to do anything else. The sun’s setting light shining red and pink as you brushed and plaited your black, curly hair, your loose silver scales hanging from the kinks, glitter that floated through the fat, warm air. The pains you went through to make sure you could work as much as possible through your shedding time. Us falling into a cold bath, welcome at the end of the day, yout hair floating like a halo around your head, my claws shifting the old scales into the clean water, and you drifting in and out of sleep as I dried and polished your new scales.

I remember as well the times when you looked after me. You pulling me from the mud, cleaning me up and boiling tea on the rickety hob in the corner, the first person on Cardassia to care about me. And then there came the panic attacks, my own shedding time, and whatever sickness I managed to catch from the surrounding environment. There is something comforting about how you look after me - maybe it’s the way your dark eyes soften when you smile at me, or the jokes you say as you rub the old scales away, or the way you cuddle me no matter what state I’m in. It’s... comforting. Loving. Good.

You’re starting to wake now - I can see one eye opening, but the other is hidden in the mound of pillows you have. One blink, then another, and then a wide yawn that shows off all of your teeth. You watch me sleepily, as I smile foolishly on you.

“Good morning,  _ s'h'iosr'halin _ .” I say quietly, letting my fingers draw patterns across your belly. “Good dreams, I hope.”

“Mmm.” You stretch like a cat, arms and legs reaching towards the two sides of the bed, your back a drawn bow before you relax completely with a happy sound. “What time is it?”

“A little past dawn.”

“Hmm. We have around an hour, then.” With one arm you cuddled your pillows, and with the other you cuddled my belly and pulled me down to lie by your side, a laugh on your lips. You smile innocently at me, your eyes already slipping closed into sleep. I brush one of your braids from your face, letting the back of my hand caress your eye ridges. It’s true, I think to myself as sleep lulls my eyes into shutting too, I truly am the luckiest man in the city.


End file.
